


Paint

by Silverstreams



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: GLaDOS (mentioned) - Freeform, Gen, Portal Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverstreams/pseuds/Silverstreams
Summary: Portal Secret Santa 2018: a gift for Schxzoscientist, who prompted Doug having a psychotic attack and the companion cube calming him down.





	Paint

Doug loved his paints. 

He had spent ages scavenging dyes, inks, and other liquids he could use to turn into colors for his paints. Some of them weren't even paints at all--just various dyes that he used straight on the panels themselves. He had worked so hard to create and to cultivate this collection. It was the most important thing he owned, second only to the companion cube. 

_ You're doing a good thing, with your murals _ , said the cube one day, while Doug was working on a painting. Always of her,  of the mysterious test subject that was frequently the subject of Doug's paintings. The companion cube didn't understand it, but it did understand the more practical signs and signals that Doug painted around the facility.  _ What else would people do when they escape? How else are any other survivors going to find safe places to rest? You're the one painting arrows and warnings and beautiful art. You're the one that is going to save them _ , said the cube. 

Doug was in the middle of painting when he saw it. 

A flash of golden light. 

He froze. His brush quivered, a glob of paint falling onto the panel at his feet.  Maybe if he didn't move, it wouldn't see him. But the spot of light moved, and Doug exploded into action, grabbing his beloved weighted companion cube and tearing back to his nearby hideout. He had to get away. This was it. This was going to be how he died, wasn't it? A careless mistake while he was painting.

In his den, Doug hugged the companion cube,  setting his chin on the cold metal and letting the pink glow of the hearts fill his vision. His breathing came in spurts, and eventually the cube finally spoke up.  _ What's wrong? _ it said. Doug paused, closing his eyes and seeing the same flash of gold. 

"She saw me," he whispered. "I know it. She saw me." He kept his voice low and barely above a whisper. His hands trembled. His whole body trembled. "There was--there was a light. It was her," he whispered. 

_ I didn't see it _ , said the cube. 

"You don't have eyes," said Doug. 

A cold wash of fear went through Doug. "Shh," he whispered. He became completely convinced that she was listening to them. GLaDOS was listening. Even the name in his thoughts sent that spike of fear through him again. God, what if she could hear them thinking? What if she could hear the cube too? He pressed his fingers around the edges of the cube. 

But his cube didn't fall silent. 

_ I didn't see anything. You're fine _ , it said. 

"My paints," he whispered, feeling anxiety wash over him. His paints. His beautiful, careful collection. The only thing keeping him sane in this prison. 

And right now they had just been carelessly left strewn across the floor. He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. What if he never got those back? What if he'd have to start over altogether? It would take him years to get his collection back to what it was, if he managed it at all. 

_ Doug, it's okay _ , the companion cube whispered.  _ She's not listening to us. She has more important things to do than to look for a rat in her walls. Like working through her backlog of test subjects. That's what she's doing right now, remember? _ said the cube. 

Doug did remember. How could he forget? "My paints," he repeated. The cube sensed his distress.

_ Your paints are fine _ , said the cube. 

He felt a smell creep up upon them, and though he couldn't see it, he recognized it immediately---neurotoxin. Flashes of memory came back to him, of the green gas flooding the facility and choking his friends, his colleagues. The rest of Aperture. And he was smelling that smell right now. He clamped a hand to his mouth and struggled to breathe. His breath came in spurts and panic clung to him. He began looking for a way out, a way to escape. He stood up and grabbed his cube, ready to move, ready to go, ready to get out of here. 

Cube seemed to sense this shift in Doug's behavior.  _ Doug? _ it whispered,  _ What's wrong? _

"Neurotoxin," he whispered. He had maybe moments left to live. Moments left to get them both out. 

_ I don't smell anything _ , said the cube.  _ Or see anything _ .  

"You can't smell." His words were muffled, but the cube could still hear him. 

_ You're hallucinating again _ , said the cube.  _ There's no neurotoxin. If there was, you'd be dead by now.  _

Doug removed his hand from his mouth and took a deep breath in. Despite that, the thick smoke still clung to his nostrils, to his memory. He covered his mouth again. Maybe the cube had been right. Maybe he was just hallucinating. 

"You're sure?" he said to the cube. 

_ Absolutely.  _

He took another deep breath, and, when finding that his lungs weren't collapsing on him, tried to push through the smell. 

He wasn't dead. He wasn't dead! 

Doug let go of the companion cube and darted out back toward the mural. As quickly as he could, he gathered what was left of the paints, and brought them back to his den. He felt a wave of happiness, of joy, of relief wash over him as he touched them all, memorizing the shapes of the tubes in his hands. He'd done it. He'd rescued his paints. All was right in the world. 

"Thank you," he said to his cube. 

He had something special planned for his next mural. 


End file.
